Cole's Funny Picture Book No. 1

by E. W. Cole

Superannuated Horse to His Master, who has Sentenced him to Die And hast thou sealed my doom, sweet master, say? And wilt thou kill thy servant old and poor? A little longer let me live, I pray; A little longer hobble round the door. For much it glads me to behold this place— And house me in this hospitable shed; It glads me more to see mu master's face, And linger on the spot where I was bred. For oh! to think of what we have enjoyed, In my life's prime, e'er I was old and poor! Then from the jocund morn to eve employed, My gracious master on my back I bore. Thrice ten years have danced on down along, Since first to thee these way-born limbs I gave; Sweet smiling years! When both of was were young— The kindest master and the happiest slave. Ah! years sweet smiling, now for ever flown, Ten years, thrice fold, alas! are as a day. Yet as together we are aged grown, Together let us wear that age away. And hast thou fixed my doom, sweet master, say? And wilt thou kill thy servant old and poor? A little longer let me live, I pray, A little longer hobble round thy door. But oh! Kind Nature, take thy victim's life! And thou a servant feeble, old, and poor; So shalt thou save me from the uplifted knife, And gently stretch me at my master's door.

The Arab and His Horse Come, my beauty; come, my dessert darling! On my shoulder lay thy glossy head! Fear not, though the barley sack be empty, Here's half of Hassan's scanty bread. Thou shalt have thy share of dates, my beauty! And thou knowest my water skin is free; Drink and be welcome, for the wells are distant, And my strength and safety lie in thee. Bend thy forehead, now, to take my kisses! Lift in love thy dark and splendid eye; Thou art glad when Hassan mounts the saddle— Thou art proud he owns thee; so am I. Let the Sultan bring his broadest horses, Prancing with their diamond-studded reins; They, my darling, shall not match thy fleetness, When they course with thee the desert plains. We have seen Damascus, O my beauty! And the splendour of the pachas there; What's their pomp and riches? Why, I would not Take them for a handful of they hair.

The Cab Horse Pity the sorrows of a poor cab horse, Whose jaded limbs have many a mile to go. Whose weary days are drawing to a close, And but in death will he a rest e'er know. When the cold winds of dreary winter rage, And snow and hail come down in blinding sheet, And people refuge see 'neath roof or arch, The cab-horse stands unsheltered in the street. Though worn and weary with useful life, In patient service to his master—man; No fair retirement waits his failing years, He yet must do the utmost work he can. His legs are stiff, his shoulders rubbed and sore, His knees are broken and his sight is dim, But no physician comes his wounds to heal, The lash is all the cure that's given him. Ye kindly hearts that spare the whip, and stroke, Just now and then, with kindly hand, his mane; Or pat his sides, or give a pleasant word, Your tender-heartedness is not in vain. He has not many friends to plead his cause; He has not speech his own wrongs to outpour. Pity the sorrows of a poor cab-horse; Give him relief, and Heaven will bless your store.

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Page 168—Gee Gee Land

Farmer John Home from his journey Farmer John Arrived this morning safe and sound, His black coat off, and his old clothes on: "Now I'm myself," says Farmer John. And he thinks, "I'll look around!" Up leaps the dog: "Get down, you pup, Are you so glad you would eat me up?" The old cow lows at the gate to greet him. The horses prick up their ears, to meet him. Well, well, old Bay! Ha, ha, old Grey! Do you get good food when I'm away?" "You haven't a rib!" says Farmer John: "The cattle are looking round and sleek; The colt is going to be a roan, And a beauty too, how he has grown! We'll wean the calf, next week." Says Farmer John, when I've been off, To call you again about the trough, And watch you, and pet you, while you drink, Is a greater comfort than you can think." And he pats old Bay, And he slaps old Grey; "Ah, this is the comfort of going away." "For after all," says Farmer John, "The best of the journey is getting home! "I've seen great sights, but would I give This spot, and the peaceful life I live, For all their Paris and Rome? These hills for the City's stifled air, And big hotels, all bustle and glare, Lands all horses, and roads all stones, That deafen your ears and batter your bones, Would you, old Bay? Would you, old Grey? That's what one gets by going away." "I've found out this," says Farmer John, "That happiness is not bought and sold And clutched in a life of waste and hurry, In nights of pleasure and days of worry, And wealth isn't all in gold, Mortgage and stocks, and ten per cent., But in simple ways of sweet content. Few wants pure hopes, and noble ends, Some land to till and a few good friends, Like you, old Bay, And you, old Grey, That's what I've learned by going away. And a happy man is Farmer John, Oh! a rich and happy man is he; He sees the peas and pumpkins growing, The corn in tassel, and buckwheat blowing; And fruit on vine and tree. The large kind oxen look their thanks, As he rubs their foreheads and strokes their flanks, The doves light round him, and strut and coo; Says Farmer John: "I'll take you too, And you, old Bay, And you, old Grey, The next time I travel so far away."

The Horse A horse, long us'd to bit and bridle, But always much disposed to idle, Had often wished that he was able To steal unnotic'd from the stable. He panted from his utmost soul, To be at nobody's control; Go his own pace, slower or faster. In short, do nothing—like his master. But yet he ne'er had got at large, If Jack (who had him in his charge) Had not, as many have before, Forgot to shut the stable door. Dobbin, with expectation swelling, Now rose to quit he present dwelling, But first peep'd out with cautious fear, T' examine if the coast was clear. At length he ventured from his station, And with extreme self-approbation, As if delivered from a load, He gallop'd to the public road. And here he stood awhile debating, (Till he was almost tired of waiting) Which way he'd please to bend his course, Now there was nobody to force. At last, unchecked by bit or rein, He saunter'd down a pleasant lane, And neigh'd forth many a jocund song In triumph, as he pass'd along. But when dark nights began t'appear, In vain he sought some shelter near, And well he knew he could not bear To sleep out in the open air. The grass felt damp and raw, Much colder than his master's straw, Yet on it he was forc'd to stretch, A poor, cold, melancholy wretch. The night was dark, the country hilly, Poor Dobbin felt extremely chilly; Perhaps a feeling like remorse Just now might sting this truant horse. As soon as day began to dawn, Dobbin, with long and weary yawn, Arose from this his sleepless night, But in low spirits and bad plight. "If this" (thought he) "is all I get, A bed unwholesome, cold and wet, And thus forlorn about to roam, I think I'd better be at home." 'Twas long ere Dobbin could decide Betwixt his wishes and his pride, Whether to live in all this danger, Or go back sneaking to the manger. At last his struggling pride gave way, To thought of savoury oats and hay To hungry stomach, was a reason Unanswerable at this season. So off he set, with look profound, Right glad that he was homeward bound; And, trotting fast as he was able, Soon gain'd once more his master's stable. Now Dobbin, after his disaster, Never again forsook his master, Convinc'd he'd better let him mount. Than travel on his own account. Jane Taylor